


the vicious kind

by fliptomybside



Category: One Direction (Band), Taylor Swift (Musician)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-09 20:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4362524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fliptomybside/pseuds/fliptomybside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it isn't like she's never been here before, except she hasn't. </p><p>or: taylor stares at her bedroom ceiling, thinks about harry styles, and figures some things out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the vicious kind

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this while listening to Taylor's cover of Riptide and Vance Joy's cover of I Know Places, as you do. This is meant to take place mostly before the release of 1989. Title is from the movie of the same name, and is probably less about Taylor and Harry's relationship and more about Taylor herself. It is unbetaed, so all mistakes are mine, is definitely a work of fiction, and isn't meant for the eyes of either of its subjects. (I haven't written anything like this in years and years, so enjoy/be gentle).

_I’ve got a lump in my throat cause you’re gonna sing the words wrong_

**after.**

“I was on a boat once, I came up with the line ‘so it’s gonna be forever, or it’s gonna go down in flames.’” 

And it’s true, she did, and it’s easier to think about that day now, years down the line. Her memories of that trip are a weird combination of fuzzy and sharp, alcohol racing through her bloodstream and the sinking feeling that yeah, this is probably the end. It wasn’t relief that it was over, but at the same time Taylor felt like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Months of adrenaline slowly fading, muscles unclenching all at once, her fingernails cutting into the palm of her hand. Wearing a pretty dress with sunglasses covering her face and words swimming in her head. It’s visceral, that moment, but she is Not That Girl Anymore. Not that girl, not anymore.

**before.**

Two years is a long time to be alone, Taylor thinks as she stares up at her bedroom ceiling. She can feel the press of Meredith’s paws settling in between her legs, and it’s fucking weird but she can’t help but remember the press of Harry’s fingertips on her hips, the feeling of his lips on the inside of her thighs, the way her legs tightened on either side of his head, the scratch of his flannel shirt on her skin, his lips hands eyes mouth the tangle of his hair against her stomach. Taylor exhales sharply, blinks rapidly like maybe if she opens and shuts her eyes enough times Harry touching her won’t be the thing she thinks of when she looks up at her ceiling.

She swings her legs over the side of the bed, ignores Meredith’s disapproving meow, and pads downstairs to the kitchen, floorboards cold beneath her feet even though this is Los Angeles. She putters around the kitchen for a minute, puts the kettle on and pulls a mug with Meredith’s face on it down from the cabinet and waits for the whistle to pick up steam. It’s dark and she still feels the nag of jetlag, thinks about texting Ed but she isn’t awake enough to figure out what time it is in London, and who knows what he’s doing, but in this moment Taylor doesn’t care. 

It’s not like she can’t talk to Ed about Harry—the two of them were friends first, anyway—but he tries to be neutral (like Switzerland, she remembers from that interview), and Taylor feels weird talking to him about her sex life with one of their mutual best friends. She flicks the kettle off, abandons the idea of calling Ed, and decides to give in, because she’s an adult and for a city that’s so populated, LA feels lonely in that moment.

Leaving her house at 4 o’clock in the morning with the intention of walking a street over to Harry’s house isn’t the worst idea she’s ever had, but it’s probably close. 4 AM isn’t a time that she cares to go over her greatest mistakes (actually, it is, but not today, apparently). It’s been a month since the last time, probably, and she justifies her actions by reasoning that at least it’ll be his ceiling she’s staring at instead of hers. Taylor runs through the vague details of the last she heard about Harry’s schedule and hopes he’s home. If he’s not, well. No one but Taylor needs to know about this. 

Harry lives a block away from her. He’d bought the house after, and it’s one of the few things they don’t talk about. Taylor knows she’s not subtle, knows that putting a polaroid of herself in his shirt and not much else in her album booklet is probably something that her record label will wince at, but she’s owning her life (they don’t talk about that, either). Every mistake is hers, no one else’s, and after all this time it starts to feel okay to live without worrying about millions of people breathing down her neck.

Taylor’s had sex with three people, Harry included, more than he’d been with when they first got together, which always felt weird to her, being the one with more experience. All those years she spent loving older men who didn’t give her the time of day catching up with her, she guesses. She knows he’s slept with girls since they broke up, knows that he doesn’t owe her anything, especially not in terms of his current love life. But they always seem to fall back together when everything around them falls apart. And this early morning, standing on the precipice of the biggest career move she’s ever made, Taylor feels the seeds of doubt she thought she overcame a long time ago. She knows this won’t fix it, that it’s all in her head, but for some reason Harry feels like a safe place when everything is crumbling. Taylor figures it’s because they imploded so spectacularly the first time that they could survive anything.

She pauses outside his house, sees his Range Rover in the drive, and inhales. She tells herself that she doesn’t have to do this, stand outside his house like Harry never stood outside of hers. But walking back seems impossible now, so she steps forward in her worn pajamas and flip flops. For Taylor this is intentional, deliberate in a way she usually isn’t in relationships that are long ended. Sometimes she wonders if they should make a clean break. She presses his doorbell anyway. It’s not like they haven’t talked about it, what this is and what this isn’t, and Harry chooses that moment to swing the door open, sleep rumpled and shirtless, pants low on his hips, blinking slowly at her.

“So,” Taylor starts, and for someone who never runs out of things to say, especially to boys she’s in love with, she’s surprisingly speechless. Harry looks sleepy, tired in the way he started to look when everything fell apart for the last time. He angles himself to the side to let her into the house, and she’s digging her fingernails into her palms again, trying not to touch him. Harry closes the door once she’s cleared the threshold, leans back against it and says “hiiiiii,” in that sleep rough slow voice that Taylor always forgets to miss. She steps forward, acutely aware of the fact that she’s in sleep shorts and an ancient I heart London t-shirt. She can feel her cheeks turning red and fights against it, looks him in the eyes with a wry, “what would People magazine say if they could see us now?” She forces her hands to relax and tries to make herself seem casual and funny and model pretty because she knows Harry’s type. She hates herself in that moment, knows that she’s good enough, just her, she doesn’t need to be anyone else, but old habits die hard. After everything that happened between them her stomach still twists up sometimes when she looks at him, makes her feel like she’ll never be able to eat again. 

Harry chuckles and runs his hand through his hair. His fingers get tangled up and he looks so warm and familiar and Taylor can feel her chest caving in, and she knows that this is well and done but that isn’t enough to stop her from closing the gap between them. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.

She moves slowly. Cautiously. They’ve been here so many times before, and she’s read about all the girls, has from the beginning. Taylor knows better than most that not all of them are true, but when it’s dark outside and she’s alone it eats away at her more than she wants to admit. Harry sways forward from his post against the door and that’s it, that’s enough to calm her insides. She slides her hands over his shoulders, palms still smarting from the press of her fingernails, and she can see his eyes flick down to her lips. They’re chapped from the early recording sessions. She’s been picking at them and she knows she shouldn’t, but old habits die hard, and she hopes (she knows) Harry won’t care. 

His lips are soft against hers, so warm and she gasps like it’s the first time (hopes someday it won’t feel like this anymore), and Harry slides his tongue inside, slick against hers and he steps forward and starts to walk her backwards, hands slipping under the edge of her t-shirt, fingers sliding across her skin, gentle, practiced, hesitant. Taylor’s been to his house enough times to know the way to his room, and they stumble up the stairs with a surprising lack of grace for two of the biggest popstars in the world. Harry’s still walking her backwards, fumbling for the door to his room, and she wonders if she was his last just like he was hers. It doesn’t matter, her brain says, and she knows it doesn’t. It doesn’t. Maybe if she says it to herself enough times she’ll start to believe it. 

The backs of her knees hit the mattress and Harry hovers over her, hair brushing her cheeks, and he grins at her, still tired, lips red and spit slick, and she reaches for him like he’s hers to have again. Harry comes easily like he always does, mouths down her neck as his hands wander up her shirt, and when he pulls away, she grabs the hem, lifts it up and over her head, and she knows that her hair must be a mess but she pushes the thought down as Harry’s weight settles over her. Taylor can feel him hard against her thigh, and he starts to rock against her as she drags her fingers down his back. She can feel the muscles jump under her skin and she starts to push down his pants as he laughs into her neck. Always laughing, even now. Taylor feels warm all over despite the air conditioned cold of his room. 

When she’s buried in his pillows and he’s sliding into her, always so hot and almost more than she can take, she closes her eyes and listens to the grunts he always tries to stifle. She feels brave in that moment, maybe it’s because there are fingernail marks on Harry’s back and they’re from her, but she whispers in his ear, “let me hear you,” and he sighs into her neck, kisses down across her chest and slips his hands down, down, down, rubbing her in time with his hips. He’s louder now, and she can feel his rhythm start to stutter, and he moans and rubs harder and she’s so surprised when she comes, tightening her legs around his waist. He looks her straight in the eyes, then, pushes his hips into hers once, twice more, and he groans from deep in his chest as he comes, pressing her deep into the mattress. The room was cold before, but Taylor can feel beads of sweat on her forehead when Harry pulls away. He ties off the condom and ambles into the bathroom, leaving her to come down. She rolls over to her stomach and stretches, feels her back crack quietly as Harry makes his way back over to the bed. He slides in next to her and Taylor turns to face him. She smiles and he mirrors her, green eyes still tired. There are tiny lines around his eyes and she laughs and reaches out a hand to trace them. “Turning into an old man on me, huh,” she whispers. Harry closes his eyes briefly and shakes his head, says back, “not used to waking up for this at 4 AM anymore,” and a slow smile spreads across his face. Taylor’s laugh catches in her throat. “Guess you didn’t miss me too much, then,” she says, and the way Harry’s eyelids start to fall makes her stomach start to clench again. “Always miss you,” he mumbles, eyes closed and arms wrapping around her. 

Two years is a long time to be alone, even with Harry living a street away. It’s not like he’s there most of the time, and it’s not like that between them anymore. Taylor can’t remember it ever being like this before, with anyone. For someone who’s constantly labeled a serial dater, she hasn’t had many mornings like this. She knows so well how these things end, because everything does, eventually. So she breathes in tandem with Harry and lets herself be held, because two years is a long time, and even she needs this.

It’s after, when Harry’s breathing has slowed (so much that she used to worry he died in his sleep) and he’s draped over her in sleep, limbs everywhere (like an octopus, Taylor used to tease, and she’s sure she wasn’t the first and knew she wouldn’t be the last), that she lets herself look up, blink slowly at the ceiling, and exhale the breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Taylor isn’t sure what time it is. Harry hasn’t acquired an alarm clock since she’d been here last. She doesn’t feel much more awake than she did standing on his doorstep, but she closes her eyes anyway, lets herself lean further into the tangle of Harry’s limbs like this isn’t temporary, like this isn’t something that’s already over. Like he’s still something that belongs to her.

In the grand scheme of things, waking up in Harry’s empty bed isn’t the most uncomfortable situation she’s ever been in. She can hear a blender whirring in the kitchen, thinks Harry must still be on the health kick that started some time after everything went down in flames in public. Taylor still isn’t sure what time it is, but Harry’s bedroom is bright now, LA sun striping across his tangled duvet. She’s not sure where her phone is, it feels weird not having it, but a good weird. Like she can live like this, away from everyone else’s eyes, just this. Just sun and sheets that smell like Harry and his blender working in the kitchen. Between the two of them, Taylor’s sure they have enough money to hide away from everything for the rest of their lives. Because in this moment, she feels okay. Like her whole world isn’t shattered on the floor for everyone to see. Like this moment is just for her. No one else. 

When she makes her way into the kitchen, finally, Harry has a glass of something that’s vaguely purple on the counter and another halfway to his mouth. He gulps a third of it down in one go and wraps his long fingers around the glass on the counter and passes it to her. She takes it tentatively, takes a small sip, and only coughs a little. “Heeeey,” Harry says with a smirk, only mildly offended, and Taylor laughs and she doesn’t worry and god knows where her phone is or what time it is but it’s okay. It’s good.

**after.**

A year later she does the Radio 1 Breakfast Show with Ed, and it should be weird, sitting there listening to a song that’s as explicit about her relationship with Harry as she’s ever been, with her best friend and his best friends, like there’s not this giant elephant in the room. Like Harry’s presence isn’t there at all. Privately, she wonders what Nick thinks of her, wonders what Harry told him about everything. Wonders if he told Nick how the end wasn’t really the end, wonders if Nick knows that she’s seen Harry crying at midnight, that she didn’t know what to do but cry herself. That she still doesn’t know. Doesn’t have it all figured out. But when it finishes and Nick says, “that’s a good song, isn’t it!” she says thanks and she thinks he means it and she leaves it at that. No more reading between the lines. No more waking up in Harry’s bed when everything feels like it’s falling apart. No more feeling like she’s drowning. Three years is a long time, and it’s okay for things to be this way. It’s okay that they fell into each other’s beds for years, it’s okay that he left her stranded, it’s okay that she hung up the phone, it’s okay for Taylor to think of him when she’s sleepless and staring at the ceiling.

It’s okay. It feels okay, then it feels like freedom.


End file.
